Her enthusiastic feelings were attended with a moft exuberant fancy, and volable tongue.
[I]f you will paſſe / To where you are bound, you muſt enquire your way, / Which you are out of, with a gentler ſpirit, / Or neuer be ſo Noble as a Conſull, / Nor yoake with him for Tribune.
The scene was Mr. Cruncher’s private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley, Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty.
[T]here are frequent returns to particular portions of the airs, more indeed in the manner of a refrein or burden, than Da Capo, or Rondo […]
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